


Surrender

by Nahiel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 11:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nahiel/pseuds/Nahiel
Summary: In Harry's fifth year, he surrenders to Voldemort.





	Surrender

 

Harry stared down at his bloodied hand and watched it tremble. He tried to still it, but he couldn't quite manage. _I must not tell lies._

Right. He wasn’t trying to tell lies, though, and it broke his heart a little bit to think that she, and everyone else in the wizarding world, seemed to think that he was. Voldemort was scary, yes, he got that, he got that better than probably anyone else, but…

He sighed, and tried to focus on cleaning of the blood instead of worrying Umbridge and what she thought. What the world thought.

Part of what hurt so much was that no one was doing anything about what Umbridge was doing. But that wasn’t fair, was it? Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe Dumbledore didn’t know that Umbridge was essentially torturing her students. Maybe… maybe if Harry told him…

But then, he’d have to be there in order for Harry to tell him, and he hadn’t really been around all that much. How could Dumbledore just not be at the school? Didn’t he have an obligation to his students to be present? What happened if something went wrong and he wasn’t there, something like a teacher torturing a student?

Maybe he would be there tomorrow. Maybe Harry would go to his office and try to talk to him. Maybe Harry would tell him about the Blood Quill. Maybe Dumbledore would…

But then, it wasn’t like Dumbledore had been around to talk to him before, right after his trial with the Wizengamot.

Sometimes it felt so hopeless, like no matter what Harry did, he was going to wind up fighting for the rest of his life. And he was so tired of fighting all the time. Every year it was something, and every year the stakes seemed to get higher. Last year he’d watched Cedric be killed in front of him. Who was next? One of his friends?

Harry shivered. He scrubbed at the back of his hand until it hurt, trying to get the blood off.

He’d never felt more alone, more certain that there was no way out. He didn’t think he could do this anymore. He didn’t know what else he could, if anything, but he knew that he couldn’t carry on like this. He was too tired, and too sad, and too hurt.

ooOOooOOoo

Three detentions later, detentions all served less than two weeks into the school year, and Harry hadn’t seen Dumbledore once at the school. He’d tried to go to McGonagall, but she’d snapped at him to keep his head down and stop getting detentions. She hadn’t been willing to hear him out at all. And Harry didn’t know where else to go. He didn’t dare go to Sirius for advice, because his godfather would probably do something stupid and get himself hurt.

He couldn’t handle the idea of Sirius getting hurt because of him. He was already so damaged by Azkaban…

Harry closed his eyes, his and burning once more. He thought about his options, which were slim. There were only so many things he could do, and only so much more that he could take.

He thought he might be nearing a breaking point, like he was approaching the end of his rope. When he went to bed that night, his whole body felt curiously heavy, like there was a great weight pressing down on him. It took a long time for him to fall asleep, and when he did finally fall asleep, he dreamed…

_He recognized immediately the strange feeling of the visions he sometimes got of Voldemort. At first, he thought he should hide and pretend like he wasn’t there, so that he could find out what was going on and report to… to who? Dumbledore wasn’t exactly around to tell about his strange dreams._

_And Harry was tired, and he was hurting, and it turned out that it didn’t matter. He couldn’t successfully hide his hurt._

_Curiosity nudged at him like Crookshanks, and Harry was powerless to shove it away. He didn’t try, anyway. He hurt too much._

_Within moments, the formless void he existed in gave way to a ground that appeared beneath his feet, barren and cracked. A sky blew in as if on a breeze, grey with low-hanging clouds. And then Voldemort was standing there, his red eyes narrowed. He looked like his younger self, in that he still had a nose and hair._

_He wasn’t nearly as frightening as he thought he was. Or maybe Harry was just that tired; he didn’t know._

_“Harry Potter,” the Dark Lord hissed. “What brings you to my mind?”_

_Harry shrugged. He never knew what pulled him to Voldemort. “I’m tired,” was all that he said. He didn’t try to run, didn’t bother trying to attack. He didn’t have the energy for it, and it wasn’t like it would do any good. As far as he knew, the mind wouldn’t affect the body, anyway._

_“That was no kind of answer,” Voldemort said severely. “How are you here, then, if you won’t tell me why?”_

_Harry shrugged. “You’ve given me visions since sometime in my fourth year,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how, or why.”_

_Voldemort’s lip curled. “Of course you don’t,” he said with a roll of his red eyes. “Stupid brat. Get out of my head, then!” The world began to dissolve around Harry, wind whipping at his clothes and hair, making his eyes water._

_“Wait!” Harry shouted, the world torn from his throat. He flinched after saying it, expecting to be hurt, and closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t see it coming. It would hurt less that way._

_But silence followed his shout, and the wind died down. When Harry hesitantly cracked open an eye, he found Voldemort staring at him, one hairless brow raised._

_“I’m tired,” Harry repeated quietly. He dropped his gaze to study the ground beneath his feet._

_“And you think that I care?” Voldemort asked, his voice sharp with derision. “Because I cannot imagine why you would ever think that I do.”_

_“Because I want you to kill me,” Harry whispered, not entirely sure he was going to say it until he’d thrown the words out there. Once spoken, the words felt freeing to have said. “I’m tired of being hurt,” he continued. “And I’m tired of fighting for a world that doesn’t seem to want to hear me. Or care about me. So I want you to kill me, because I don’t know how else to make this stop.”_

_Voldemort’s mouth had dropped open in the most undignified expression Harry had ever seen from the man. “You… are you saying that you’re surrendering to me?”_

_Harry hesitated. “Will you make it quick?” He took a slow step towards Voldemort. If Voldemort killed him, regardless of whether Harry surrendered or not, that wasn’t technically suicide, was it? Someone else would be killing him, so it was just dying._

_Voldemort hesitated, his gaze dropping. Harry followed it, and found that Voldemort was staring at his hand, which was dripping blood. It made no sense, since he was in Voldemort’s mindscape, and Harry blinked down at it. “What’s this?” Voldemort asked, and reached out with one curiously gentle hand to touch._

_Harry flinched at the contact. He drew his hand closer to himself in a protective gesture. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “Would you make it fast?” he asked again, more urgently._

_“Yes,” Voldemort finally said._

_Harry sagged in relief, and as he did so, the dreamscape began to disappear. “How will you get me?” he asked, a little desperately. He couldn't do this anymore, and if they were parted, who knew how long it would be before Voldemort came to him again?_

_“Hogsmeade,” Voldemort replied. “Tonight. The Hog’s Head. Someone will meet you and bring you to me.”_

_And then the dreamscape was gone._

Harry woke up, a smile on his face, his shoulders feeling lighter than they had in a long time. It was almost over. He was almost free.

ooOOooOOoo

Sneaking out of Hogwarts was as easy as it ever was.

There was a part of Harry, an immense part, really, that felt terrible about what he was going to do. He was abandoning Sirius, abandoning Ron and Hermione, abandoning everyone. But… but he was so tired of worrying about everyone else, as selfish as that thought was. And they would probably be fine. He couldn’t imagine otherwise.

It wasn’t like somebody else couldn’t fight Voldemort, right?

He made it to the Hog’s Head, and slipped inside behind a small group of people. He put his Invisibility Cloak away in a dark corner of the room, but kept the hood of his regular cloak up. He didn’t want to be recognized before he found whoever Voldemort had decided to send.

Harry looked around, more than a little bit nervous. The bar wasn’t all that crowded, and he hoped that it would stay that way, so that he could find whoever he was looking for. Or maybe he didn’t, so that he would blend in with the crowd. He didn’t know which would be better. He wasn’t really good with the whole ‘subterfuge’ thing.

And then he didn’t have to worry about it, anyway, as a hand landed on his shoulder. “Potter,” Lucius Malfoy purred. “I hear that I’m here to take you to my Lord. I hear that you’re surrendering.”

Harry shivered. He took out his wand, then, and handed it to Lucius. “You heard right,” he said.

Lucius squeezed his shoulder, and then the world blurred around them and they were gone.

ooOOooOOoo

After arriving at what could only be Malfoy Manor, Harry was led to an office of all places. He was ushered in by Lucius, who left immediately, before the door had even closed. Harry stood awkwardly watching Voldemort, who sat behind a desk with his quill scratching over a piece of parchment. He signed it with a flourish, then lowered his quill and raised his head.

“Sit down, Potter,” Voldemort murmured. It was strange to hear him speak without anger.

Harry perched in the chair across from Voldemort, his every muscle tense. “So, are you doing this publicly?” he asked, when the silence between them stretched.

Voldemort studied him. “Show me your hand,” he replied, instead of answering Harry’s question.

Harry glanced down at the hand he kept wrapped in bandages, the one that had been bleeding in Voldemort’s mindscape. “Why?” He flinched after he asked it, expecting a flare of pain from a curse or a hex.

Instead, Voldemort responded with, “Because I would like to see what made you bleed like that in my dream.” His voice was even, steady, and Harry had to be losing his mind, because he thought there might be compassion in his tone as well.

Harry stared down at his hand for a moment longer, debating with himself. Did it matter if he showed Voldemort his hand? Would it make Voldemort kill him that much faster? Maybe showing him would mean that Voldemort was kind about it, and would make it quick and relatively painless. Harry was ready for something to be painless.

Quietly, his hand shaking, Harry held it out to Voldemort.

Voldemort studied him in silence, but then stood and came around the desk. He took Harry’s hand in his own, the touch still curiously gentle, and he began to unwrap the bandages. Harry flinched when the last layer fell away, but didn’t drop his gaze. Instead, he watched as Voldemort’s eyes narrowed and he studied the wound on Harry’s hand.

“This is from a Blood Quill,” Voldemort said quietly. He didn’t touch the injury, but didn’t let go of Harry’s hand either. “Who made you write this, Potter?”

Harry shrugged. “Does it matter?” he asked, just as quiet as Voldemort had been. “It’s over. You’re going to kill me, to let me rest. Right?” Merlin, he hoped that Voldemort hadn’t changed his mind and wasn’t going to make him fight in a duel or something.

“If that’s what you really want, yes,” Voldemort murmured. He grabbed something from his desk, a small jar that he opened one-handed. Then he took some of whatever paste was in the jar, smeared in on two fingers, and began to carefully trace over the words with a delicate touch.

Harry jumped when the cold cream touched his skin, and then shivered when Voldemort smoothed it in carefully. “What are you doing?” he asked, his brow furrowing. He didn’t understand. What was happening? Voldemort shouldn’t be…

This was wrong, Harry thought. Wasn’t it? “You should be… you should just—”

“Did you know, in the mindscape, you don’t necessarily appear to others as your physical self?” Voldemort asked.

The question confused Harry even more. “I… no? I didn’t know that.” He guessed that it made sense, though, given that Voldemort had appeared as the much handsomer Tom Riddle.

Voldemort hummed. “When I found you, I didn’t recognize you,” he said. His focus was almost single-minded as he continued to stroke his fingers over the wound on Harry’s hand. The pain was fading, and Voldemort’s touch was very gentle. It was the kindest anyone had ever been to Harry within recent memory, and wasn’t that sad?

“What did you see?” Harry asked finally. He didn’t know what was happening, but he wanted whatever it was to just… to happen already, because he didn’t know what was going on.

“I saw a child,” Voldemort responded. “A broken and battered child, wearing clothing that swam on him. He was gaunt, like he hadn’t been fed properly ever in his life, and his eyes were so tired…” Voldemort sighed. “He was wounded, and though the wound on his hand was bad, there were others there as well, ones that were clearly not physical in nature. Your emotional wounds show through when you’re in a mindscape, after all.”

Harry shuddered and jerked his hand back, unable to stop himself. “That doesn’t matter,” he said quickly. “I just… I just want you to…” He stopped and drew in a shuddering breath. “Please. Just make it all stop?”

Voldemort stared back at him, his eyes warm and steady. “You remind me of me when I was a child,” he said.

Harry curled even more tightly in on himself. “All the more reason to kill me now,” he said miserably. “To get it over with, before I turn into the kind of monster who tries to murder a child.”

“Or I could give you what I always wanted when I was your age,” Voldemort said, his voice still in that curiously gentle tone. “We don’t have to be enemies, Harry. If you were willing to recuse yourself from the battlefield, you wouldn’t need to fight anymore.”

Harry closed his eyes against the temptation those words brought. He wouldn’t have to fight anymore. He could rest, but he wouldn’t necessarily die. He opened his mouth to agree, but then stopped himself. “Dumbledore won’t let me not fight,” he said, almost certain of that truth.

Voldemort hummed quietly. “If you were still going to be under his thumb, I would agree. But I certainly wasn’t suggesting that you return to Hogwarts. I was suggesting that you stay here, with me, and let me take care of you.”

“Why?” Harry asked, his voice strained. He could feel tears welling up behind his closed eyes and knew that a few had escaped to slide down his cheeks. “Why now, when you’ve always hated me?”

“Don’t you believe that I can show compassion to someone so broken that they think death is their only option?” Voldemort asked in return.

Harry shrugged. “You’ve never struck me as someone who is particularly compassionate,” he muttered.

Voldemort’s return laugh was soft, warm, and genuine. “Not generally speaking, no.”

“So what’s different about me?” Harry pressed. He opened his eyes and scrubbed away the tears that had fallen with his sleeve. “You said you saw me in your mindscape, that I remind you of you, but that can’t be all that it was. It’s got to be something else.” It couldn’t be that easy, not for Harry.

Voldemort reached out and touched Harry’s cheek with gentle fingers. Harry shuddered and tilted his head into the touch, completely involuntarily, a warmth the likes of which he’d never felt before spreading through him. It warmed him inside, soothing something long broken, and he made a tiny sound of protest when Voldemort moved to take his hand back.

“Please don’t!” Harry brought both hands up to hold Voldemort’s hand in place, desperate for the warmth that he couldn’t begin to explain.

“Harry,” Voldemort breathed. He stopped trying to pull away, and instead raised his other hand to stroke his fingers over Harry’s scar. There was a flare of pain, brief but dizzyingly intense, and then that touch, too, gave way to warmth. “Oh, my own,” Voldemort whispered. “I’m so sorry that I ever tried to hurt you. I swear to you, if I’d known—”

“Known what?” Harry’s mind was spinning. Voldemort was so warm, and his touch felt so good, and Harry couldn’t begin to understand why. It made no sense.

“Harry,” Voldemort said in response, not really answering the question. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s scar.

Harry hadn’t anticipated, had no way of imagining the flare of pleasure, hot and needy, that raced through him at the contact. He cried out, the sound weak and confused, and swayed helplessly into Voldemort. “I don’t… I don’t understand,” he managed, his voice wavering.

“You have a piece of my soul inside of you,” Voldemort murmured. He pulled Harry close, his arms twining tightly around him. “I know that you’re tired, and I know that you just want it all to be over, but Harry, if you give me a chance, I swear to you that I will make you happier than you could have ever imagined.”

Harry was tired, and he didn’t know how much more he could take, but… but… “Promise me that you won’t hurt me anymore,” he demanded, and fought the urge to burrow further into Voldemort’s arms. “Swear it to me.”

“I swear,” Voldemort said immediately. “Would you like for me to make the oath a magically binding one?”

Harry opened his mouth to say that he hadn’t known that was possible, but froze and swallowed the words when Voldemort shook his head sharply. “Never mind. That was a ridiculous question, because of course you do.” He settled Harry carefully back in the chair, his touch still gentle, then did something complicated with his wand.

What felt like seconds later, but was surely longer, there was a tap at the door and, after Voldemort barked out a command to enter, Lucius swept into the room. “My Lord?” he asked, and dropped into a graceful kneel on the floor.

“You will witness my Unbreakable Oath to Harry,” Voldemort commanded.

If Lucius was surprised, he didn’t show it. “As my Lord commands me,” he said, and rose to his feet in a single, smooth motion. He drew his wand and held it loosely in his right hand.

Voldemort knelt before Harry, then, and took Harry’s hands carefully in his own. Lucius stepped forward and pressed his wand to their joined hands. “I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, do swear to never purposefully injure Harry James Potter again.” As he spoke, a thin, golden strand of light branched out from Lucius’ wand and twined around their joined hands. Harry felt nothing, but Voldemort flinched when it appeared.

“Furthermore, I swear to do everything in my power to make certain that he is happy and that nobody else will hurt him again, and that he is well cared for.” He drew in a deep breath, and then let out a shuddering sigh, his shoulders drooping. The thin golden strands disappeared, but Voldemort’s skin was now red and blistered where they’d been.

It hurt Harry to see it, though he could scarcely believe it. “You hurt yourself for me?” he asked. He went to touch him, to pull his hands away and touch the markings, but stopped just before actually doing it when Voldemort made a noise. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Voldemort smiled, the expression only a little pained. “It was worth it to make you feel more safe,” he murmured. “Please don’t worry about me.”

Harry swallowed. His eyes fell on the jar of salve that Voldemort had used earlier on his own hand. “May I?” he asked, and pulled back to reach for the jar.

“Please,” Voldemort responded, his eyes widening.

Harry dipped his fingers into the salve, then carefully began to smooth it over the burns. His fingers tingled as he stroked Voldemort’s skin, the warmth eventually spreading from his fingers and up his arms. He could feel his cheeks heating as the warmth continued to spread, and he ducked his head to hide it.

Lucius cleared his throat, making Harry jump. He’d forgotten that the man was still in the room. “Was there anything else you needed from me, my lord?” he asked carefully. There was a strange expression on his face, but Harry didn’t think he could identify it.

Voldemort shifted back slightly, though he didn’t pull away completely. “You understand that my orders regarding Harry will have changed, yes?” When Lucius nodded, Voldemort said, “Then I’m putting you in charge of disseminating that information among the ranks.”

“I will see it done, my lord.” Lucius bowed smoothly, then disappeared from the room as though he’d never been there. The only remaining evidence of his presence were the burns on Voldemort’s hands.

Once Lucius was gone and they were alone, Harry resumed spreading the salve over the burns, carefully. His hands shook this time, nervous for a reason he couldn’t begin to explain. There was a sort of anticipation saturating the room, giving every motion a strange weight to it.

“You’re trembling,” Voldemort said eventually, once the burns had all been coated. He caught Harry’s hands and raised them to his lips, then pressed a soft kiss to them.

A small, startled noise escaped Harry before he could stop it. Warmth shot through him, settling in his stomach, where he began to feel something that he’d never felt before, a sort of warm and squirming feeling. Harry flushed and dropped his hands, confused by the strange sensation.

Voldemort immediately shifted closer, still kneeling on the ground. Harry spread his legs a little, letting Voldemort get even closer still, his heart pounding.

“Don’t be afraid,” Voldemort murmured. “I’m going to take such good care of you; you have my oath, remember?” He placed his hands on Harry’s cheeks, then, and before Harry could reply to that first question, he said, “I’d like very much to kiss you.”

Harry might be naive, but he wasn’t that naive. He knew that Voldemort was asking for more than a kiss on the forehead or the cheek, and it frightened him. But not more than he wanted it, surprisingly. “Please?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“It would be my pleasure.” Then he leaned in, and his lips touched Harry’s.

It was electric, and Harry shivered. He’d thought that Voldemort’s touch had felt good before, but this, this was like nothing he’d ever known. A sound rose in his throat, high and needy, and he tried to shift closer, moving forward in the chair until he was perched on the edge of his seat, as close to Voldemort as he could be without actually being in his lap.

Voldemort pulled back and pressed his forehead against Harry’s. “How was that?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Good,” Harry replied, still trembling. “Really, really nice.” He flushed, because it didn’t seem like an adequate way of phrasing it. It was juvenile, childlike almost, and he didn’t want Voldemort to think of him as a child.

Voldemort smiled, then leaned in and kissed Harry again. This time, his tongue brushed against Harry’s lower lip, then did it again and again until Harry hesitantly parted his lips. Voldemort then took his mouth, slowly and steadily exploring it with his tongue, teasing Harry’s own until they danced together.

This time, when Voldemort pulled back, Harry couldn’t quite manage to get his breath. His hands had wound up on Voldemort’s shoulders, when he couldn’t say, and he thought he might be bruising him because of how tightly he was holding on.

“Still okay?” Voldemort asked. This time, he hadn't pulled very far back at all, and his lips brushed against Harry’s with every word he spoke. “Still nice?”

Harry shivered again. The heat in his belly had spread, and his cheeks were no longer flushed because of embarrassment, but rather from the warmth. “Yeah,” he said, and almost didn’t recognize his own voice. It was hoarse, rough with need.

“Do you want more?” Voldemort asked. His fingers brushed against Harry’s cheeks, gentle and caressing.

Harry’s heart fluttered. “I—” He stopped. “I don’t know,” he said finally. He dropped his eyes, the shame returning with a sick feeling in his stomach. He thought maybe he did, but he didn’t even know what more would like like, or if he should want more. Voldemort was a murderer, after all, and a madman. Part of him regretted what he’d done already, but he knew it was too late to turn back.

He was Voldemort’s. He’d surrendered. There was no going back now.

“That’s okay,” Voldemort said, his words gentle. He stood and scooped Harry easily into his arms. “You don't have to be afraid of anything with me, or ashamed, either. I told you, swore to you, that I’m going to take care of you, and that is a promise I cannot break. No matter what happens between us.”

Harry shifted, curling further into Voldemort’s arms and burying his face in Voldemort’s robes. They were soft and warm, and, in spite of his confusion and uncertainty, Harry really did feel safe.

“Are you tired?” Voldemort asked.

Harry thought about the question. Now that he was safe, there was a heavy feeling pulling at him. Exhaustion, maybe? Harry didn’t know. He couldn’t really remember a time when he’d truly felt safe, except for maybe after he’d first arrived at Hogwarts, before Snape and Quirrell and everything else. Before he’d realized that Hogwarts was only safe for people who weren’t him.

“I think so,” he finally mumbled after the silence stretched.

“Did you have time to eat dinner?” Voldemort began to walk, but Harry didn’t look up to find out where they were going.

“Uh-uh,” Harry said. “But I’m not hungry.” His stomach was always less willing to accept food when he’d been stressed, and he’d been very stressed for most of the day. Planning to defect to the Dark Lord had been terrifying, made better only by the fact that Dumbledore hadn’t been present. Was never present, it seemed, anymore.

Voldemort’s arms tightened slightly around him, the gesture soothing. “Then let’s get you to bed,” he said.

Harry would have responded, but by then, he couldn’t bring himself to speak. He hummed an affirmative, but drifted off to sleep before he next heard Voldemort’s voice.

ooOOooOOoo

When he woke up, it was to the sound of soft hissing. “~He feels like a part of you.~”

“~He is,~” Voldemort responded. “~He has a part of my soul inside of him, a tiny shard that broke off when I tried to kill him. He is so very precious to me, Nagini.~”

“~Then he is precious to me,~” Nagini hissed. “~And I will care for him.~”

Cool scales brushed against his skin and Harry shivered. He protested, the sound tired and scratchy because he was dehydrated. “~You're cold,~” he complained without opening his eyes. He curled closer to the large source of warmth next to him, probably Voldemort.

“~Harry, my darling, are you a Parselmouth?~”

Harry sighed and snuggled closer. It was Voldemort he was cuddling with. “~Yes,~” he replied. “~I found out in my second year, during a duel. Malfoy summoned a snake against me. It didn’t quite go as well as he’d hoped.~”

“How could I not have known what you were?” Voldemort mused. He shifted against Harry, settling further into the bed and tugging Harry closer. “There are so many signs that I missed.”

Harry hummed. He opened his eyes to find the room dark, with Voldemort’s eyes barely visible in the darkness. He shifted closer, if that was even possible, and tilted his head up, asking for a kiss without words.

Voldemort understood his request and kissed him, the touch of his lips soft, until he coaxed Harry’s mouth into opening once more. Harry obeyed, and this time let his tongue twist around Voldemort's without being coached.

When they parted for Harry to breathed, Voldemort didn’t pull back. Instead, he kissed his way down Harry’s jawline, then buried his face in Harry’s neck. Harry shuddered as Voldemort pressed kisses to his neck, and let out a high whine when Voldemort bit at the juncture of his shoulder and his neck, then sucked where he’d bitten.

“Please,” Harry begged, not at all sure what he was asking for. He squirmed on the bed, shifting, tugging at Voldemort’s shoulders until he was almost on top of him. He felt hot all over, like his body was on fire.

Voldemort shifted so that he was properly on top of Harry. His weight pressing Harry down into the bed could have been alarming, but instead it felt better than anything Harry had ever felt. Voldemort was between him and everyone, everything else. Nobody could hurt him. And then VOldemort kissed him again, and as he did so, he pressed his leg between Harry’s legs.

Harry cried out, the sound ripped from his throat. The pressure Voldemort’s leg provided gave him something to thrust against, and Harry found himself doing so helplessly. Voldemort kissed him, and Harry whined into his mouth, the pleasure in him building at a fever pitch.

“More,” he gasped out.

Voldemort shifted his weight slightly, then his fingers slid against Harry’s stomach, under the thin material of his shirt, making the muscles flutter. Then they were in his underwear, sliding down until they gripped Harry’s length. He cried out, his hips arching desperately, and his whole body locked up as his pleasure reached its peak.

Shivering in response, Harry reached for Voldemort with both hands and pressed soft, sweet kisses to his lips. When they parted, Harry shyly whispered, “Thank you.” He hesitated, because he didn’t know too much about… about sex, but he was pretty sure that it was rude to leave his partner hanging. “C-can I—” He stopped. He couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Voldemort kissed him, more of a brush of their lips. It didn’t feel like he was trying to entice Harry into anything, but rather like he was soothing him. “Not until you’re ready,” Voldemort murmured. “And if you’re never ready, that’s okay.”

The last of Harry’s tension drained from him. “No pressure?” he asked, his voice a little shaky. It wasn’t a concept he was familiar with.

“None,” Voldemort promised.

Harry couldn’t begin to explain it, but he felt tears rising in his eyes. He closed them to try to force them back, but it wasn’t working.

Voldemort’s fingers brushed over his eyelids. “If you need to, you can cry,” he said. “Please don’t feel like you need to be strong in front of me.”

Harry drew in a shuddering breath, and then he let the tears start. He clung to Voldemort, who curled protectively around him, humming soothing nothings in Harry’s ear. Cool scales brushed against his skin and Nagini’s hissing voice added words of comfort.

He cried until he couldn’t cry anymore, until his eyes ached and his throat was sore, and VOldemort soothed him gently the entire time. Once it was over, once Harry had drunk most of a large glass of cool water and his throat didn’t feel like he’d scraped it raw, he said shakily, “Sorry.”

Harry had been sitting up to drink the water, still leaning against Voldemort. Now, Voldemort moved Harry, making him lie down with his head in his lap. He ran long fingers through Harry’s hair. “You don’t need to apologize.”

They sat in silence, Harry’s eyes slowly drooping closed. “Do you want to talk about it?” Voldemort asked into the silence.

Harry sighed and shifted, settling in. “You don’t expect anything from me,” he whispered. “There’s nothing you want me to do, no agenda you’re hiding. And I don’t know what Dumbledore wanted, exactly, what he was hiding, but I know there was something.” He drew in a shuddering breath, and it hitched around the tears that threatened once more. “There had to be something.”

Voldemort’s arms tightened around him. “There was the prophecy,” he murmured. “I’m sure, though I don’t know exactly what it said, that it would have had something to do with Dumbledore’s agenda.”

Harry stilled, every muscle tensing. He couldn't draw breath; his heart felt like it had stopped. He managed to overcome it, but only enough to ask, “What prophecy?”

Voldemort’s hand froze in Harry's hair. “You didn’t know.” He didn’t sound terribly shocked, and it was more of a statement than a question.

“No.” Harry wanted to pull away, any trace of tiredness gone, but he didn’t know if he should. Being so close to Voldemort felt soothing and safe, in a way that Harry had never known. “What is it?”

Voldemort sighed. His fingers resumed carding through Harry’s hair. “I wish that I could say that I’m surprised, but I’m afraid that I’m not. Dumbledore likes to keep his information to himself.”

Now Harry did pull away, but only to stand up and start pacing. “I don’t understand why,” he hissed, crossing his arms. The carpet of the bedroom was thick and soft beneath his bare feet. “We were on the same side!”

Voldemort’s hands landed on Harry’s shoulders, his touch gentle. “Sometimes it’s easier to manipulate people if they don’t have all the information.”

Voldemort’s words were like cold water down Harry’s spine. “And you would know, right?” Harry twisted away from him, his anger roaring to life, hot and bright. “You manipulate people, don’t you, Lord Voldemort?”

Voldemort simply stared patiently back at him. “Yes, Harry,” he said. “I do. I’m a Dark Lord, and while I intend to protect you, to cherish you as you deserve, I won’t give up my goals and I won’t change my methods. Can you accept that?”

Harry’s breath hitched. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. He wanted to move back to Voldemort’s arms, though, his whole body trembling with the need.

Voldemort took a step towards him, and Harry took an immediate one back. “Don’t,” he said quickly.

Voldemort stilled. “Harry,” he breathed. He took a step back. “If I’ve pushed you in any way—”

“You didn’t,” Harry said quickly. “I wanted… what we did, I wanted.” He drew in a shaky breath. “I just… I don’t… we’re being drawn together, and I don’t—” He cut off and scrubbed his hands over his face, only just realizing that he wasn’t wearing his glasses. “I don’t know and I think I’m frightened,” he said, his voice small.

“What do you need from me?” Voldemort asked. He didn’t move towards Harry, buts tayed still, waiting.

Harry wanted to tell Voldemort to go. To leave, to let him figure this out on his own, without the interference of whatever it was inside of him that wanted desperately to be close to him. But on the other hand, he wanted nothing more than to step forward into Voldemort’s arms, to be kissed and stroked and soothed and settled. He didn’t want to ask questions. He just wanted to let himself go.

But now that he’d recognized the power that Voldemort’s touch had over him, Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to step into his arms. “I think I need to think,” he said quietly. His arms tightened around himself. “Alone, I mean.”

If Voldemort was offended, he didn’t say. “Of course,” he said. “You should stay here, and we’ll speak in the morning.” He slipped on his robe in preparation to leave, then hesitated. “Would you be okay with Nagini remaining in the room? I feel incredibly uneasy leaving you alone.”

Harry hesitated, but considered how he would feel, alone in what was essentially enemy territory. He’d been willing to die only hours earlier, but now… “That’s fine,” he said.

Voldemort nodded, gathered his robe, and left. Immediately, the room felt colder. Harry didn’t know what to think about that, and decided not to try and figure it out. He was tired, so very tired, suddenly.

He crawled back into bed, mourning the loss of Voldemort’s warmth, and tried to go back to sleep. It wasn’t easy, and he spent most of the night tossing, turning, and wondering if he’d just made a mistake.

ooOOooOOoo

When Harry next woke, it was to a quiet pop and an irritated hiss from Nagini. “~Go away,~” she hissed. “~The little shard is still asleep!~”

“~’m awake,~” Harry mumbled. He sat up, though the process was hindered by Nagini, who had wound herself around him at some point during the previous night. She was warm, like Voldemort, and heavy. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at a wide-eyed house elf.

“Whimsy is to be asking sir if he is wanting breakfast?” the little elf squeaked.

“Yes, please,” Harry said. He wasn't sure if he was hungry or not, but he knew he should probably eat. “Just something small, though.”

Whimsy dipped into a curtsey and popped away. She returned less than a minute later with a tray of food that probably met a house elf’s definition of small, but was far too big for Harry. Then she said, “Master Dark Lord is wanting to join you for breakfast.”

Harry went still, staring at the massive mountain of food in front of him. He felt like he was at a crossroads. If he let Voldemort return, he felt like that would set the tone for the rest of their relationship, because a relationship seemed to be the inevitable result of their strange connection. Voldemort would be in control. But if he didn’t, if he demanded more time and space, he didn’t know what would happen.

He drew his knees up to his chest, still staring at the food. Maybe he didn’t want to die anymore, but he was still so very _tired._ And Voldemort had promised to never hurt him, and Harry… he wanted to believe it.

He wanted to stop fighting, to let whatever was happening with Voldemort happen. “I’d love it if Voldemort joined me,” he said with a certainty that he didn’t quite feel, his stomach churning.

Whimsy curtseyed again, then popped away.

Minutes passed, Harry’s stomach still twisting itself into a knot. He couldn't even think about the food in front of him because of his nerves. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to settle himself.

There was a quiet tap on the door, then Voldemort swept in without waiting for a response from Harry. His whole body seemed to wilt at the sight of Harry on the bed, and Voldemort crossed to his side, then dropped to his knees beside the bed. “Harry,” he breathed, his voice thick with relief.

Harry… hadn’t expected that, that Voldemort would be so affected by their separation. He reached out, his fingers trembling, and touched Voldemort’s head. The immediate spark of warmth, of connection and belonging, took Harry’s breath away. “Voldemort,” he whispered, unable to raise his voice. He slid off of the bed and into Voldemort’s waiting arms, trembling violently. He couldn’t get close enough.

“I’ll always leave if you ask, but please don’t send me away again,” Voldemort was begging, his words fervent whispers in Harry’s ear. “Please let me take care of you, cherish you, protect you…”

Harry couldn't imagine how he’d ever wanted Voldemort to leave. “Never again,” he swore. He didn’t think he’d be able to manage it again. He shifted, pressing his lips to Voldemort’s, and Voldemort immediately kissed him back, their mouths locked and their tongues twisting together.

Heat bloomed in Harry, desperate and needy, and he found himself letting out a pleading whine. Voldemort stilled against him, then shifted them both so that he could pick Harry up. Harry was in the air for only a handful of seconds before he was being pressed into the bed once more, Voldemort on top of him again.

Their kisses grew more fevered, and Voldemort’s hands slid under his shirt once again, stroking over his bare skin. Then Harry’s shirt was gone, he couldn’t have said to where, and Voldemort’s was as well. Their pants met a similar fate, and Harry found himself naked before Voldemort for the first time.

It felt right.

It felt more right when Voldemort continued to kiss him, and, as he was doing so, ran a finger between Harry’s legs, sliding over Harry’s hole. Harry gasped into his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut, and parted his legs even further. This was what he needed. He wanted to belong to Voldemort fully, to give himself over to him.

To surrender.

He let his legs part, forced himself to relax as Voldemort murmured something against his lips, a long string of latin that Harry couldn’t begin to translate, and his hole loosened and grew slick. He shivered when Voldemort’s finger slid into him with no resistance, and when it was joined by a second, then a third, Harry just let out desperate, encouraging noises.

How could he have ever been afraid of this?

Then Voldemort was inside of him, sliding home, and Harry had never felt more complete. Reaching his peak was almost secondary to the feeling of being whole, of being so close to Voldemort, who held him and thrust into him several more times before reaching his own peak, spurting warmth inside of Harry.

They kissed again, slow and leisurely, their lips tangling together once more. The air was cool on harry’s naked, sweaty skin, but he didn’t mind. He was safe and warm in Voldemort’s arms, with Nagini coiled beside them.

Nothing else mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> I was at a crossroads at the same time that Harry was with this fic. It could have grown into something much longer, into another multi-chaptered beast. I have so many of those in progress right now (though most of them are un-posted) that I chose to write the shorter version of this story. Eventually, someday, I might come back and write that multi-chaptered beast.


End file.
